


Patterns

by Lumakiri



Category: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Introspective Legend Angst Hours, Sad Times With Legend, legend is a sad lad, like the pieces of puzzle or a child's uneven scrawl, simon and garfunkel hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29748621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumakiri/pseuds/Lumakiri
Summary: All legends are guided by the hands and tongue of the land.And there are patterns they must follow, just as they must breathe each breath.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Patterns

_From the moment of my birth to the instant of my death;_  
 _There are patterns I must follow as I must breathe each breath._  
  
The Gods had never truly been clear to him; they did not intervene when the court bayed for his blood, nor when he lied alone as an infant upon the doorstep of his uncle. They had not guided his hand with the blade nor his foot upon the quest. Legend had always been alone, but that was how he understood the world, at first. He saved because he must. He was a Hero, because no one else could be.  
  
Then Legend learned the pieces of the puzzle. The corners and the edges and the shapes of history amongst the gloom. The thousand blessed before him, and the thousand after, all broken and shaped into a simple husk. He was here to fight and survive and be a vessel for all the light in the land.  
  
And like a riddle he can't solve, a voice trilling rhymes he doesn't understand, Legend is dragged through this ritual of salvation another seven times. To love, to lose, to kill, to bruise. Poppies in the meadows as histories of war. Scars upon his breastbone, as natural as waves upon a shore. He suffered, and fought, and begged. He lived.  
  
After all, what good was a soldier six feet under the froth and the slime?  
  
It doesn't matter, not now. It is a rhythm, a cadence of bloodshed. To dance and destroy and fall at their feet. There were moments in the quiet of the night that he was glad she was gone, because a world where blood foamed upon the sand and crept under the grass was not a world for her. Constant, repeating, unyielding, Legend recognises this song.  
  
Like an old folktale from his uncle's time, he knows the face of those he must kill. The baker, the butcher, the maiden in the square. Each acre of land awash in crimson, for that is what the gods command. The clarion call of the heavens rattles his bones and directs his blade and Legend has always been powerless.  
  
The last thing he truly remembers is the lightning strike upon the weathervane; the way the rain broke against the cobblestones as if it had naught to lose. The wheat swayed in the fields, the sparrow sung amongst the yew berries, and he saw it all with a startling clarity like the first sunrise of May.  
  
His world had an order, a ritual of life. Death took and returned; Evil waxed and waned, and like the tilling of the plow and the ripening of the crop, it was unchangeable. Legend was a woodwork figure of ash and birch, a plaything to the heavens. As he perhaps had always understood, it was a rhythm, a motion, a moment in time, a pattern he must follow until the sun forgets to shine.  
  
When he lies his sword upon the sands, he asks, _for a true love of mine._  
  
 _Like a rat in a maze, the path before me lies;_  
 _And the pattern never alters until the rat dies._


End file.
